


Home Remedies

by flotationdevice



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fever, Poisoning, Stitches, also Edith Piaf, and feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:08:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6328540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flotationdevice/pseuds/flotationdevice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The U.N.C.L.E. Operative's Field Guide to Lacerations, Poisonings, and Influenza. </p><p>OR: Love and recovery in three parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Remedies

**Author's Note:**

> For Isabelle.

1.

 When they get back to the hotel Gaby is tucked under his arm, leaning tiredly into his side, and his hand is pressed firmly into her shoulder.

“ _Avez-vous passé une belle soirée, M. Nikolayev?_ ” the receptionist asks, smiling prettily at them.

“ _Très belle, merci_ ,” he manages, trying not to look impatient as she searches for their room key. He hears her whispering to the other girl behind the counter as they head for the stairs (“ _il est tellement beau”_ and “ _quel couple charmant”_ ) and even manages a pleasant smile over Gaby’s head as he steers her out of the lobby.

Upstairs, things devolve quickly. Gaby shrugs out of Illya’s grip and slips out of her coat, revealing the bloodied remains of her silk Chanel scarf tied tight around her arm. There’s blood smeared down the side of her dress, too, dark brown against the cheerful blue and white stripes, which is a shame because the dress is an exquisite Yves Saint Laurent and they are never going to get the stains out.

“Has the bleeding stopped?” he asks, shrugging out of his jacket and locking the door.

“I think so, look.” She holds her arm out and he takes it by the elbow, unwrapping it carefully and peering into the wound. Yes, the bleeding’s mostly stopped, and now that it has he sees it’s a relatively clean cut, if deep. He runs his thumb against her skin absentmindedly, thinking, and meets her eyes to find her staring at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“This will need stitches,” he says grimly, squeezing her arm for emphasis, and she sighs, closing her eyes for a moment.

“I thought it might. We can’t go to a hospital,” she says, half-question, half-statement, and he shakes his head sympathetically.

“No.”

“Right,” she says, as though the worst has been confirmed. “And you can do them, of course?”

“Of course,” he echoes curiously, appraising the teasing glint in her eye.

“Wonderful,” she says flatly, and slips out of his grip to slink into the bathroom. He finds his suitcase in the bedroom at the foot of the bed and pulls out the first-aid kit, then goes to join her in the next room, where she’s sitting on the marble counter, by the sink. She looks hopelessly chic and unbelievably bored, staring dully at the wall and brushing her hand through her hair, as though a knife fight in the alleyways of Lyon has been subpar entertainment for the evening. He drops the kit next to her and rolls up his sleeves.

“Where’s Solo?”

“Leading our new friends on a merry chase.” Her brow scrunches in concern, and he resists the absurd urge to smooth out her forehead with his thumb. “Don’t worry,” he says instead. “Cowboy is a terrible spy, but these men are amateurs.”

“Didn’t feel like amateurs to me,” she mutters, glancing down at her arm before quickly looking away again. He takes a towel from the rack and runs it under the sink, then lifts her arm again, wiping the blood from it as gently as he can manage.

“Professional thugs,” he admits, “but amateur spies.” He twists open the peroxide bottle and presses it into a cotton pad. “This will hurt,” he says bracingly, and she nods, her mouth tightening into a small pink circle.

“I’ve had stitches before,” she snaps.

“This is consolation,” he says, before pressing the pad to her arm.

She holds up admirably, considering. He has always received top marks in first aid exercises, but he outdoes himself this time, his sutures straight and perfectly even, six of them lined up in a neat row across the golden skin of her arm. By the time he’s finished, she’s tense and breathing quickly, her face pale, her knuckles white where her hands grip the counter. He passes over the wound again with the peroxide and she lets out a soft hiss, her eyebrows drawing together, and he feels lost, wanting to soothe her and not knowing how.

“It’s finished,” he says instead, putting the cotton ball down. She looks down at her arm uncertainly, her mouth still in a tight line, before glancing up at him through her eyelashes. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears, her lip is red where she’s been biting into it, and the side of her dress is still stained with blood. He is, he realizes (not for the first time), completely in over his head.

“ _Danke_ ,” she says after a moment. “Doesn’t it need a bandage?”

He starts. “Yes, ah—here.” He presses a square of cotton to the wound and tapes it carefully to her arm, running his fingers along the edge to make sure it’s in place, and beneath his hands, he feels her shiver. “Are you cold?” he asks softly, the strength of his voice leaving him somehow, and she blinks up at him, her expression unreadable.

“Not so cold,” she murmurs, shifting. He finds he is standing closer to her than he was before, the side of her leg brushing his hip, and he swallows, letting his fingers trail down her arm. He sees her sigh more than he hears it, sees her lean towards him, and he closes his hand around the fine bones of her wrist, pressing his thumb against her pulse.

“Illya,” she begins breathily, and then of course the door to the suite opens and Cowboy swaggers in, calling _Honey, I’m home!_ He breathes out a tense laugh and starts to pull away when Gaby pitches forward to lean her head against her shoulder. “Why does he always say that?” she mumbles miserably, and he smiles at the crown of her head, resigned.

“It’s from a TV show. American, of course. Their programming is terrible.”

“So is their timing,” she mutters wryly, sliding off the counter to join Napoleon for a drink just as her words sink into Illya’s brain.

 

 

2.

She’s been completing firearms training with MI6 for the last two weeks, and so she meets the team directly in Ljubljana, dropped into the middle of the operation as Napoleon’s German cousin, the sculptor. She’s been made to memorize Napoleon’s address, Illya’s, and her own, and after settling her things into her own hotel room, she goes for a walk, ending up at the flat where Illya is stationed.

It is Napoleon, however, and not Illya, who opens the door. “Miss Teller,” he says cheerfully. “What a lovely surprise.”

She pauses as she steps through the doorway, her purse clutched in both hands, wondering if she somehow remembered the addresses backwards. “Napoleon,” she says measuredly. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I’d think not,” he says, smiling, and she frowns.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No, no,” he says, striding easily back into the flat. “Something to drink?”

“Why not?”

He pours her a glass of cabernet sauvignon, placing it on the coffee table, before settling onto the sofa and spreading the morning’s _New York Times_ across his lap. He raises his feet, clad in shiny black oxfords, onto the table, and crosses them at the ankle, looking sharp and smug and utterly at ease.

“Well,” she says, patience wearing thin. “Where’s Illya?”

If possible, Napoleon’s smile grows even wider. An instant later, the door to the bedroom swings open, and Illya staggers out, pale-faced and furious, bee-lining towards the bathroom. “Hello,” he mutters curtly, glancing in her direction, before slamming the door shut behind him. Creeping forward, she can hear him retching, the sound muted through the wood of the door. She looks back at Napoleon.

“What have I missed?”

“A botched poisoning attempt on our Soviet comrade,” he says, still smiling. “An iron will, but not, as it turns out, an iron stomach. A damn shame.”

“And what are you doing? Nursing him back to health?”

“I think of it more as _supervising_.”

He looks indecently pleased. Gaby shrugs out of her coat, drops her purse on an end table, and moves to hover by the bathroom door. She hears the sink running, and a minute later Illya himself appears in the doorway, pausing as he notices her waiting for him. He seems surprised to find her standing so close, his eyes widening slightly as they land on her.

“Are you alright?” she asks quietly. He doesn’t look good, looming above her: his hair dishevelled, his lips dry, greyish smudges beneath his eyes, and what looks like the remains of a bruise dusting the corner of his jaw.

“Fine.” She frowns, and he relents. “I will be fine.” He pushes past her gently, his arm hot against hers, and disappears back into the bedroom with heavy steps, the door not quite swinging shut behind him.

“Shall I leave you to it, then?” Napoleon says, folding his paper with crisp efficiency, and she squints at him disbelievingly.

“To do what, exactly?”

“To—what did you call it?—nurse him back to health.” He winks.

“ _Arshloch_.”

“No need to get nasty.”

“I’m not some little girl come to play nurse maid.”

“I assure you, it’s very easy. It really is just supervision.”

“If it’s so easy, why don’t you just keep at it? Clearly, you’re the expert.”

They are interrupted by Illya, whose voice calls out from the bedroom: “I do not need supervision. Both of you, go home.”

“Is that the thanks I get?” Napoleon sighs, playing at being affronted, and she rolls her eyes at him. “Why are you here, anyway?” he asks suddenly, rounding on her with a glint in his eye. She reaches into her purse and tosses him an envelope, plain except for a serial number hand-written onto the front.

“From Waverly,” she says, by way of explanation, and watches Napoleon deflate.

“I was hoping for something more salacious.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” she says, not sorry at all, and reaches for her wine.

.

An hour later, Napoleon has fallen asleep reading the features, and Illya has been in and out of the bathroom twice, looking increasingly miserable after every bout of retching. She slips out of her shoes, careful not to wake the American, and pads into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. When she pushes open the door to the bedroom, she finds the curtains drawn over the window and Illya sprawled across the bed, his head turned to the wall, his undershirt pulled tight over his shoulders.

“Gaby?” he murmurs, and the mattress creaks as he turns over to peer at her, the bed comically small beneath the bulk of his body. “You’re still here?”

“Solo is asleep on your couch,” she says instead. “Are you thirsty?”

“ _Ja_ ,” he says, pushing himself up weakly and reaching for the glass. “ _Danke_.”

“ _Bitte_ ,” she murmurs, watching his throat move as he drains the glass. He looks younger than usual—more human, somehow, pale and rumpled, his face unshaven, his hair falling across his forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

“Yes,” he breathes, setting the empty glass onto the bedside table. “I think so. But—“

His words cut off as she steps forward and presses her hand to his forehead. His skin, usually so smooth and cool, is hot and pulsing beneath her fingers. She moves her hand down his face, cupping his cheek, and he closes his eyes, leaning slightly into her touch. “You should take some medicine,” she says quietly.

“I will throw it up,” he says, shaking his head. His stubble scrapes across her palm, and she moves her hand away quickly, putting it behind her back.

“How can I help?” she asks instead, and he shifts, moving his shoulders down the bed.

“You can avenge me against the bastard who did this,” he says bitterly, and cracks on eye open to watch for her smile. “But that is all. You should go home, Chop Shop Girl. There is nothing to do but wait.”

“Solo’s still here,” she points out.

“Cowboy is very dramatic,” he says dismissively. “And very disappointed in his accommodations. I think—“ His sentence is broken by a yawn. “I think he is trying to smoke me out.”

“You should sleep,” she says softly.

“I am trying,” he says wryly. He holds a palm up and, at a loss, she gives him her hand. He pulls on it, slowly, gently, until she steps close enough for him to press it against his forehead. “Your hands are cold,” he offers, sighing softly as she runs her thumb gently, hesitantly, over his eyebrow. It’s strange: sometimes he is all edges, his profile sharp, his movements mean; and sometimes all she can see are curves, in the roundness of his shoulders, and the contours of his face, and the sweep of his eyelashes, dark and thick against the pale skin beneath his eyes.

“You should go,” he says again, so softly she barely hears him; but he doesn’t let go of her hand, and she stays there for a long time, her hands on his face, her heart in her throat.

 

 

3.

Peril is the one who wrangles him into bed. Gaby presses two tablets into the palm of his hand and a glass of water into the other, and tells him firmly to drink, laying a damp cloth over his forehead.

Dimly, as though from across a great divide, he can hear them murmuring to each other, now in English, now in German.

“What do we do?”

“There is nothing to do. We must wait. I cannot _carry_ him through airport.”

“What if they find us?”

“They won’t.”

Rustling. A small, cool hand, brushing his hair back from his face. “He’ll be alright?”

“ _Ja, Liebchen_.” Gaby’s hand pauses and then draws away, and Napoleon shifts restlessly. His head feels so hot, he might think it were ablaze, burning up his throat and his eyes from the inside out; but there is a chill pressing into his neck, his hands, sinking into his bones, and he shivers convulsively, clutching at the wool blankets on top of him, drawing them tight around his neck.

“He’s shaking. Are there more blankets?”

“I will look.” Peril’s steps are nearly silent as he moves through the small house, opening cupboards, searching through armoires. Gaby perches on the edge of the mattress next to him and resumes stroking his head, her fingers light and sure as she pushes them across his scalp. She presses her hands against his neck, his face, takes the cloth on his forehead and turns it over, trying to ease the ache behind his eyes.

“Do you need anything?” she murmurs.

“Cyanide,” he grits back, and he hears Peril puff out a laugh as he settles more blankets on top of him.

“Your options are paracetamol and water,” he rumbles.

“In that case,” he says, fighting off another shiver. “Leave me to my fate.”

“Sleep, Cowboy. We must move again in the morning.”

They leave him then, moving out into the main room, but sleep seems impossible. He is aware of the weight pressing into him, linens and blankets and quilts pilfered from their unwitting hosts, but it is as though the warmth of them cannot reach the inside of him, the aching, radiating chill in his gut. He rolls, presses his burning face into the cool of the pillowcase, and draws as much of himself up as he can, trying to gather his own warmth in his arms. How they expect him to sleep when he cannot stop shivering is beyond him; he clenches his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering and holds himself rigid, willing his body to cooperate.

Vaguely, he realizes that Gaby and Peril are talking, their voices drifting in through the open doorway.

“I was worried you’d died,” she’s saying, her voice oddly tremulous. “Terrified. When the feed cut out, I thought—“

“Gaby,” Peril murmurs. “I am alright.”

“I _know_ , but then Napoleon could barely stand and I just—I—“

“I know,” he’s saying, “I know,” and there’s a rustling. Napoleon gives into another bout of shivering. He wonders if they’re embracing; arms wrapped around each other, cheeks pressed together. Although, with Peril’s height, perhaps not; perhaps she’s pressed her face against his chest, his neck, wherever she can reach. He coughs once—twice—finds he can’t stop, and Gaby appears in the doorway, the loose hair about her face lit up like a halo.

“Water?” she asks.

“Yes, please, thank you,” he rasps. The water is cold; he feels it trickling down his throat and through his chest, and he imagines himself following it, rushing down, down, deep into the dark.

.

When he wakes up, his eyes are still burning, but he’s stopped shivering. He takes a moment to collect himself, to breathe deep and find his limbs beneath the heavy blankets, and becomes aware of music drifting in from the other room. It’s Edith Piaf—of course it is—and he recognizes the mournful strains of _La Vie en Rose_ as Gaby spins into his field of vision.

“Are you really going to sit there all night?” she says teasingly. There’s a glass of something amber in her hand, and she swirls it idly before taking a sip.

“The view is not bad,” Peril replies, ought of sight, and Napoleon smiles to himself. _Atta boy, Peril_ , he thinks, proud, and revels in the absurdity of the feeling.

“I think you owe me one,” Gaby says primly, knocking back the rest of her drink, and a chair creaks as Peril, presumably, gets to his feet.

“Is that so?” he rumbles, and then there he is too, stepping in close to her, the pair of them backlit by the lamp against the wall. He takes her hand in his as the music swells, settles the other against her waist, and leads her into an easy waltz, their heels whispering against the floor.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” she says, craning her neck back to look up at him. Peril presses her closer, keeping his face tipped up, a small smile flashing across it.

“I didn’t,” he counters.

“So what’s changed?” she murmurs, leaning in closer to him. Around them, Edith croons: _Quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas…_

“You have a way of wearing me down, Little Chop Shop Girl,” he replies, and then they’re not so much dancing as swaying, holding each other in the middle of the room.

“Illya,” she says softly, so softly Napoleon nearly misses it. “You are not allowed to die.”

Peril sighs with his whole body, pulling her closer, pressing his face into his hair. “I do not plan to.”

( _C’est toi pour moi, moi pour toi dans la vie…il me l’a dit, l’a juré, pour la vie…_ )

Feeling like an intruder, Napoleon closes his eyes and rolls away from them, pulling the covers up over his burning head. He can still hear their feet against the floor, shuffling, swaying, as Edith’s voice fades into a sweet, swelling brass, and then long after the horns fade into silence.


End file.
